


You should have shot back

by MirrorElm



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cancer, Fluff, Hurt And Some Comfort, M/M, One Shot, Suicidal Thoughts, smut?, suicide attempt by Tommy Shelby, this time the suicide attempt fails a different way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:48:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28875933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirrorElm/pseuds/MirrorElm
Summary: Tommy comes to the beach to shoot Alfie.But he doesn't.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 11
Kudos: 57





	You should have shot back

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, been writing this bit by bit in my downtime at work when I had nothing to do. Just something I thought of, hope you like it :)

The gunshot rings in Alfie’s ears long after it’s fired.

It was meant as provocation. Alfie knew Tommy would fucking hesitate, didn’t he? Ridiculous that he would, being that Tommy’s sole fucking reason for showing up at the pier had been to off Alfie for his transgressions. No business reasons, this was purely personal, right? His brother had almost died because of Alfie, that should be reason fucking enough.

But there he fucking was, like a little fucking kid with his father’s revolver who can’t bring himself to off the wounded pigeon in his back garden.

The wounded pigeon ain’t as helpless as he seems, though. Alfie brought a gun of his own. Even fucking lied about it. Shot Tommy in his harm, hoping it would spur some fucking instinct or something. Tommy was in the fucking war, he knows how to shoot back.

Except he didn’t.

Maybe in some other world, Tommy might’ve gotten out of his seemingly newfound fucking paralysis and shot Alfie in his pretty fucking face, right? Limped away and went on with his life. But not this one. Nah, in this world, where Alfie can’t catch a fucking break, in this world, right, he just fucking plopped down onto the sand like a doll what can’t stand on its own.

Cyril nudges forward, but stays at Alfie’s side when he feels the pull of his collar.

Alfie sighs. Tommy’s gun lies discarded by his side, the man staring up at the sky for a moment before hurling himself into a sitting position. Tommy winces as he tucks his wounded left arm closer. Doesn’t reach for the gun. Fucking bastard.

“Well, go on,” Alfie prompts, hoping against all hope that he still might get shot today, “it’s your turn, innit?”

Tommy’s eyes are weary when he looks back. He reaches for his gun and aims at Alfie. Ah, fucking finally. He closes his eyes. About to meet his maker, Alfie is, and he’s already got some choice words ready for them, don’t he? Hm, what seems more appropriate: _cunt fucker_ or _fucking cunt_?

Maybe both-

A loud bang is heard.

But Alfie, as he notices upon opening his eyes, is _not_ dead.

He’s not even fucking wounded.

Tommy shot at the sea.

“I’m not going to kill you, Alfie.”

Fucking bastard.

Fucking cunt fucker.

Alfie resists the urge to shoot Tommy again in a fit of rage and thinks about aiming the gun at himself. If you want to do something right, you always gotta do it yourself, don’t you?

Can’t fucking do it, though, can he. Suicide, yeah, is a _sin_ , and the almighty might not like sin. Not that Alfie hasn’t sinned plenty, it’s just that he decides not to sin like this, ain’t got nothing to do with him being some fucking coward.

Deep breaths in and out help him reach some calm. After a while, Cyril begins nosing at his hand and he puts the gun away.

“Right,” he clears his throat, “best come in then, lest you bleed all over the beach. It’s too lovely of a day for that. Come on. You haven’t been to this house yet, it’s lovely, really lovely.”

Tommy is either going to follow him or leave. It’s always a coin toss with the lad. As he walks back to his death house, Alfie rambles about everything and nothing. He’s talking mostly to the dog and if a certain Shelby were to follow, to him too, though he expects no dialogue form either of them.

Once back in the empty house, Alfie groans. Didn’t think he’d have to step back in here today or, well, ever, so he just sent the maid home yesterday and told her not to come back. Left it a fucking mess as well. He’ll have to call her again. What a fucking nuisance.

“Nice place,” Tommy comments as he’s taking off his coat, doing his best not to wince with every move, “a little morbid.”

“Funny lad. You want to joke some more, I can put some more lead in ya.”

“There’s no lead in me Alfie, you missed. The bullet only grazed me.”

“Apologies. That can be rectified easily.”

Alfie reaches for his gun but there is no real intent behind his words or actions. Tommy only looks back at him with raised eyebrows, very easily calling his bluff.

With his coat off, Alfie notices the red stain on Tommy’s right arm, right above the elbow. It’s probably already stopped bleeding.

“Well, I’ll get the medical kit. You can make yourself at home. If I hear one word about the mess-,”

“You’ll shoot me?” Tommy interrupts with another daring glare.

“I have other ways of revenge.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Tommy’s already in another room, probably lighting a cigarette. The things Alfie puts up with.

He goes to the kitchen and finds the box with antiseptic and bandages where Esther had left them. The bottles or morphine and pills that he got prescribed for his cancer stand next to it, mocking him. Takes all of his self-control not to smash them all to bits right then and there.

To his credit, he does not in fact destroy his kitchen. Medicines in hand, he’s off to the living room in search for Tommy, who is, predictably, sitting on the sofa with a cig in his hand, his wounded arm trembling lightly.

Alfie feels a cough coming up and only clears his throat twice before Thomas Shelby, genius that he is, gets the fucking hint and puts out his disgusting death stick. Doesn’t even fucking apologise.

“Open up the windows and come into the kitchen. I’m not stepping in here now with all the pollution you’ve done,” Alfie calls out as he turns and walks away.

In the more hospitable air that resides in the kitchen, Alfie is able to get a better look at Tommy’s wound through his spectacles. Nothing spectacular, just a line barely cutting into any flesh. Still, it was enough to rip and stain the pristine white shirt Tommy wears, and that in itself is victory enough.

Alfie cleans the wound and puts gauze on it.

“Need anything for the pain?”

“Whiskey.”

“Right, could’ve figured.”

Alfie stands and grabs a bottle from a cabinet and a glass, pouring a generous amount. He hands it to Tommy who almost downs the entire thing at once. There’s a silence after that, but neither man is uncomfortable. They’ve both seen worse things than this.

Surprisingly, Tommy is the one who breaks the peace.

“Cancer, eh?”

Alfie snorts, “yeah, cancer.”

“Of all things,” there’s a bitter smile playing on Tommy’s face.

“Of all fucking things.”

Tommy takes another swig of his drink and pours himself more, Alfie joining him once again at the table.

“If you wanted me to kill you, you could have just asked.”

“Revenge is a better way to die than fucking pity,” Alfie muses, “though I suppose it doesn’t matter now. Could still have your brother kill me, he wouldn’t hesitate.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Tommy stays silent.

Alfie knows why not. It’s the same reason Tommy hesitated. The reason he never shot back and _wouldn’t_ shoot him even if he fucking asked. There’s something between them neither man has ever acknowledged. Something forbidden.

From the first time Tommy walked into his bakery half dead, Alfie felt it, but he didn’t know Tommy had as well until the deal with the Russians. The hurt and betrayal in Tommy’s eyes too real, the open vulnerability when he spoke. _They took my boy. Did you know?_

He didn’t. And that mattered.

They’re treading on dangerous ground. Funny how being a gangster is bad for your reputation and all, but not as fucking bad as… well whatever the fuck this is.

Alfie looks away, “I have to call Esther. She won’t be here until tomorrow. You leaving for Birmingham or are you staying?”

It’s as much of an invitation as he dares to offer. Tommy shrugs.

Alfie calls his maid. She’s predictably confused, but not that surprised. It would seem Alfie has made her accustomed to unpredictability, which is good. He doesn’t bother with any of the mess but he does check the pantry. There’s still some food, although not much, but it’ll do until Esther arrives. Tommy probably doesn’t eat much anyways.

They spend the afternoon in the now properly breathable living room, reading talking and sitting in silence, Cyril happily sleeping at Alfie’s feet. Tommy steps out a couple of times to smoke and Alfie makes them tea.

As evening approaches, Alfie thinks to offer Tommy a change of shirt once again, since the fucker declined the first couple of times.

“Mate, you’ve got crusted blood brushing against gauze all the fucking time, you want a fucking infection?”

“I’ve no shirts with me Alfie, and yours won’t fit.”

“Oi, what are you sayin’? You might be a petite little fucking thing but I ain’t that big. Come now, let’s get you something.”

He strides off into the bedroom without a second thought. The closet is small, but more than enough for Alfie, who pulls out the first shirt he can find. It’s not as fancy as Tommy’s, and it’s got some wrinkles, but it’s one of the smaller ones (that might not fit him very well anymore) and should do just nicely. The item is thrown haphazardly onto the bed.

“There,” Alfie gestures, “help yourself.”

Tommy stands at the doorway, stormy thoughts brewing behind impassive eyes. It takes him a moment, but he steps inside to the foot of the bed. There’s a sudden change in his posture and he seems entirely more confident as he looks Alfie in the eye and begins unbuttoning his waistcoat.

A challenge? An invitation? Without words, Alfie’s hard pressed to guess at Tommy’s intentions, but that’s nothing fucking new, with the boy being about as chatty as a fucking rock, so he doesn’t do anything, just watches, keeping Tommy’s gaze.

The waistcoat is set aside neatly, and though Tommy’s shirt is tattered, he takes care to undo the cufflinks and take his bloody sweet time with every fucking button. The shirt is taken off slowly, with care, probably due to the wound, but fucking god it’s hot.

Alfie allows himself to stare openly. It’s not something he’s ever done with Tommy. Always stolen glances and hidden looks, but now he really doesn’t care anymore. He’s a dead man walking anyways, might as well enjoy the time he’s got left.

Tommy’s chest looks firm, as expected and the tattoos aren’t a surprise either. Alfie might almost pat himself on the back for how accurate his minds eye had been in imagining this. Still, he doesn’t stop the appreciating hum escaping him once Tommy’s shirtless.

“Something you’d like to say?” Tommy’s voice has gone lower.

Alfie shakes his head, “nah, mate. I’m fucking peachy over here.”

“Are you?” Tommy steps closer. Not making a move for Alfie’s shirt, which is a clear fucking sign. It should be a little concerning, this recklessness of Tommy’s, could be some real self-destructive tendencies there coming to light, but Alfie is not interested in playing head doctor right now. As if he could fucking influence this stubborn fucker anyways. Nah, he doesn’t say anything, even when Tommy’s just a breath away.

He just reaches his hand and runs the tips of his fingers over Tommy’s arm, right over his collar bone and up his neck, settling two fingers underneath his chin. Tommy’s eyes go dark with want and it doesn’t take much to pull him closer until their lips meet.

Chaste and innocent, is what this kiss could be called, but it doesn’t stay like that for long. Tommy’s tongue is as greedy as his hands are and Alfie lets himself be taken by the tide that is Tommy Shelby. The hands roam from chest to arse and back again, tugging the shirt free from its confines in order to access the flesh that’s underneath.

For a moment, Alfie stiffens when Tommy goes to lift his shirt at which the other man stops kissing him, eyes searching. Any fear of scrutiny is set aside once Alfie sees those pearly blues, helping Tommy undress them both, pulling them onto the bed.

Covers and anything that had been put on the mattress are pushed off to the side as the two continue kissing and touching, Alfie now on top. When Tommy’s hand moves lower, taking the other man in hand, he can do nothing but groan at the touch. Fucking heavenly.

Alfie’s own hand wanders lower as well, brushing Tommy’s cock only briefly to part his thighs, eliciting a shudder. He kisses Tommy once again and then sits back. Hasn’t had time to fully appreciate Tommy naked, has he? And that has to be rectified.

Hmm, exactly as expected, better even. Makes his prick twitch with anticipation the way Tommy lies underneath him, eyes staring back without any hint of shame. Delicious, is what he is. Alfie wonders what he tastes like. Tommy puts his hands behind his back, stretching, _showing off_ and Alfie has no other recourse but to reward him for it.

He bends forward, ignoring the strain on his back and the tickle at the back of his throat, taking the other man’s half had dick in his mouth. Tommy moans so sweetly when he’s caught off guard. Alfie works Tommy’s shaft in way he can remember he used to like. He’s never done this himself, but it’s easier than it looks, well, other than taking it.

Alfie has no fucking clue how those women were able to engulf him entirely, must have some fucking pocket dimension in their fucking mouth or something, but Tommy doesn’t seem to mind his inexperience. His hand reaches for the nightstand and he grabs the bottle of oil inside as he lifts himself off of Tommy’s cock.

He’s about to ask how Tommy would prefer it when a sharp pain bites him in his lower back. He can do nothing but curse as he keels over on the mattress.

A fucking cramp from bending over for so long. Fucking shit. Tommy is immediately above him, brow furrowed. His hand reaches over Alfie’s where he’s holding the offending muscle. They wait in silence as Alfie breathes through the pain until it passes and he goes visibly slack where he lay.

“You okay?”

“’m fine.”

The words are punctuated by a coughing fit of fucking course, because Alfie can’t have peace for five fucking minutes to fuck the one thing he’s been wanting to fuck for years. The sting in his lungs makes his eyes water as Tommy helps him sit up back against the headboard with three pillows behinds his back.

“I’ll get you some water,” Tommy says as he steps away to put on his pants, covering Alfie to his waist with a blanket.

Left alone in the bedroom, Alfie is now ready to fucking smash and destroy every damn item in here. He would probably do it too, if he weren’t feeling so fucking weak all of a sudden, the cough making him wheeze for air half of the time.

The water Tommy brings helps, but the pity in his eyes surely fucking doesn’t.

“Don’t fucking look at me like that. I’m not your sickly mother.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

He’s so fucking tired.

Everything boils to the surface then and Alfie can’t help the pathetic voice when he tells Tommy: “You should have shot back.”

It strikes Tommy differently than any of his words have before, both men now rendered speechless. Silence fills the room and it’s minutes before Alfie breaks it, rubbing a hand a cross his face.

“I’m not good company right now. Probably overdue for a nap. Or a fucking coma.”

“…I’ll leave you to it, then,” Tommy nods, pity replaced by something different, something new, something oh so Shelby-like: resolve, “but not before you get yourself a bath.”

“You’re not my nurse, Tom.”

“Then where is your nurse?”

Silence. She’s on leave of course. Alfie’s supposed to be fucking dead.

Tommy smirks at him, “thought so. I’ll get the water ready.”

Alfie grumbles something about the water having to be a certain temperature and that it took the nurse days to figure out his preference to, but Tommy doesn’t even pretend to listen and just trots off into the bathroom. He’s having fun with this now, ain’t he? That little wanker.

There is nothing to do but sit in silence, yet sit in silence, Alfie does not. Well, he does, for a couple of minutes, but he gets bored easily and so he decides to follow Tommy into the bathroom to make sure everything is above board, so to speak.

Might take a minute or two to make himself stand up. Might need to brace himself on the furniture. Might even trouble his already laboured breathing a bit, but he don’t fuckin’ care.

Thomas doesn’t even acknowledge his presence. As if it were expected. He’s feeling the water’s temperature and adding soap and oils.

“You done?”

Tommy smiles, almost imperceptibly, but Alfie’s eyes are as sharp as ever, “almost.”

When Tommy deigns the water to be ready, he stands, but holds out a hand before Alfie can come any closer, “me first,” and begins taking off his trousers.

“I’m sorry, what? Thought the bath was for me.”

“It was. It is. For both of us.”

Tommy lets himself into the water and leans back with a content sight, gesturing at his chest, “go on.”

For a moment, Alfie stares, dumbfounded. Is he serious? He can’t be serious. He’s fucking serious, isn’t he?

“Takin’ a bath like we’re married now? What, are you feeling all domestic like? Never thought you to be the type, Tom.”

“Shut up, Alife, and come here.”

Sceptical as he may be, Alfie grabs the edges of the tub and steps in. It’s a large tub, innit? The water is on the edge of scalding, just like he likes it. Not admitting it though. He means to sit opposite Tommy, but the man stops him, guiding him to sit in front of him, leaning on his chest.

“There we go,” Tommy murmurs as Alfie settles in and he too, lets out a relaxed breath. Fucking hell this is nice. The water drains the stress and pain from his body and Shelby turns out to be quite a comfortable pillow. Who would have thought, with all those sharp edges?

With eyes closed, they just enjoy the moment for a while. He could drift off like this, really he could. Maybe he would if Tommy wouldn’t break their blissful silence.

“Your hair needs a wash,” is spoken as Tommy noses along the side of Alfie’s hair, “let me.”

Alfie would be offended if he weren’t so fucking confused right now. Tommy’s never been like this. It’s not… normal. He decides enough is enough.

“Alright then, what the fuck is this about?”

Tommy huffs, “I’m offering to wash your hair.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s dirty.”

“You feel sorry for me, is that it? Pathetic old dying Alfie,” his lungs do that whistling thing again he hates so much, but he can’t help getting worked up, “be kind to the sick man, that it? Hm?”

“Alfie, relax,” a hand snakes up Alfie’s torso, placed gently on his chest, “just let someone take care of you for once.”

“Funny, coming from you,” he balks out, but deflates at the caress anyways. Tommy doesn’t speak any more and neither does Alfie.

The waves crash against sand, their noise muffled by walls. The only thing heard clearly is the sloshing of water and Tommy’s hands in his hair as he leans forward. His head is massaged and rinsed carefully and his breathing evens out. No more whistling.

Tommy nudges Alfie, helping him stand, when the water becomes lukewarm. He gives him a hand when they towel themselves off. Touch gentle, even if his face betrays no emotion.

In the bedroom, Alfie puts on a nightshirt and some underwear, wearily crawling back into bed. Tommy puts his suit back on, stained white shirt and all. A fucking shame.

“You’ll be alright on your own if I leave?”

“I’m not dying that fucking fast.”

Tommy raises his eyebrows, “need I take the guns in this house?”

Alfie looks away, “nah, would’ve done that already if I wanted to. Now fuck off, need my beauty sleep, don’t I?”

Tommy nods, seemingly satisfied, “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“Why not, eh?”

Alfie nods to himself. Why the fuck not, indeed. He doesn’t expect Tommy to come over and kiss him, but he’s not dumb enough to push the man away when he does. Soft lips that could carry him to heaven. And then he’s gone and Alfie is alone again.

Alone in this fucking deathbed in his fucking death house. But he’s not dead. Not fucking yet.


End file.
